The Cipher Read online

  It took a moment for understanding to register. Sarah’s eyes widened, her face turning chalky. “It has—? Gora,” she murmured. “But—you seem—are you all right?”

  “A poetic sort of justice, isn’t it? So far it doesn’t seem to have had any ill effect on me. But then Errol Cipher was a bastard; he liked to torment his victims, let them anticipate what was coming. I expect one of these days my skin will slough off or I’ll turn into a spider or have the sudden urge to walk off the top of a mountain.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Inside, there was a part of Lucy that quailed into a quivering ball at what the cipher was going to do to her. But there was another part of her, one that was almost feral in its strength and fury. And that part of her wasn’t going to be bullied. She wasn’t going to let a nameless, faceless stranger push her around, not the four-centuries-dead Errol Cipher, not the blackmailer. For a moment she was nine years old again, trapped against a stack of shipping crates. She remembered the man’s face, its thin, cruel lines, the twisting sneer, the diamond glitter in his sleepy eyes. And his touch. His finger on her face. Iron cold and intimate.

  The bottom fell out of her stomach. Could it be? After all these years? She’d exposed her secret talent to him—had he been stalking her since? Lying in wait until he could use her?

  Her flesh crawled. A suffocating feeling of helpless desperation swamped her.

  Suddenly the cipher on her arm flared with heat. Fire seared up over her shoulder and down to her feet. Lucy convulsed. An agonized animal sound erupted from her lips. She convulsed again and slid to the floor. Her arms and legs jerked and twitched.

  Then as quickly as it had begun, the rolling waves of lava abruptly ceased. Lucy slumped, pressing her face against her knees and taking harsh, gasping breaths.

  “Lucy? Are you all right? What’s happening?”

  “Errol Cipher,” Lucy rasped, and began coughing.

  Sarah rubbed circles in her back, then went to the sideboard and splashed water into a glass. Lucy took it with a shaking hand, the cool liquid soothing her throat. Sarah helped Lucy back up onto the chaise.

  “It appears I’m running out of time,” Lucy said when she’d regained control of herself. Her skin felt scalded. But if nothing else, the cipher’s attack had broken the shackles of her childhood panic. She was grateful for that. Purpose filled her veins. She had to get rid of her collection before either the cipher or the blackmailer destroyed her. She couldn’t let her stupidity hurt anybody else.

  They spent the morning arguing plans. Nothing seemed feasible. Lucy didn’t want to let anyone else take the chance of handling the ciphers. But she was watched.

  “It’s too risky for you to try dumping the small ones into the harbor,” Sarah insisted after Lucy had come back around to it for the third time. “Whoever he has spying on you could be in your home, could be at work, could be the baker or the milliner—anyone. You’d never know if someone had seen you. The next thing you’d know, the majicars and the guard would be arresting you. And even if you weren’t caught, that still leaves the last two. I don’t suppose they can be burned or chopped to bits to make things easier, can they?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Errol Cipher spelled his toys to last. Even things that shouldn’t last more than a few days—like flowers or food. There’s even a story of a dog that he ciphered. It’s supposedly still alive today, barking ceaselessly, stopping only to eat or drink. It never sleeps. Once it attached to an entire family. Until the last of their bloodline is gone, it won’t die. Can you imagine?”

  “I knew there was a reason I don’t like dogs,” Sarah said. “But that leaves us no closer to getting rid of your ciphers. I don’t suppose you have any secret passages?”

  “Not a one.”

  “We have to disguise them. Make them look like something else, something that doesn’t look out of place.”

  “Like what?”

  Sarah was pacing around the room, her brow furrowed. The remains of a late breakfast lay on the table. Lucy was surprised she’d been able to eat. By all rights, she ought to be so tied up in knots that she couldn’t swallow a grain of rice. Yet she’d gulped her meal like a stevedore.

  Suddenly Sarah whirled.

  “Burn your house down.”

  “What?”

  “Burn it down. The house collapses; the ciphers are buried. Easy. If you empty the vault first, even if he digs, he won’t be able to find them easily.”

  Lucy bit down on her objection. It wasn’t a bad idea. Except—burn her house down?

  “Can we keep that as a last resort?”

  Sarah shrugged and went back to pacing. A few minutes later, Lucy had an idea.

  “Chance,” she breathed, sitting up straight. “That’s it! The Harvest of Chayos.”

  “You want to give your ciphers to Chayos? Not a bad idea, really, but she might have something to say if any of her Delats succumb to them.”

  “Not if it wasn’t one of her carts that picked up the offerings.”

  “It could work. The carts are big enough, and the city will be mobbed with them for sennights. If we dressed our collectors up as Delats, no one would think it odd.”

  “Everybody gives to Chayos during the Harvest. Even the Braken-blind sailors who blame Chayos for Hurn and Meris. They don’t want to chance her turning her face away and having the wood in their ships fail. I would be just doing as expected, what I do every year. The main question is, can I stall him until the Harvest begins? Decay is sennights away.”

  “You can always burn your house down.”

  “Or break a leg.”

  “Or have yourself kidnapped—hold yourself for ransom, maybe even torture yourself. A public scandal. No one could blame you for not cooperating during something like that.”

  “I expect the blackmailer might.”

  “Then burn down the house. Or break a leg. I know some people who would be happy to help with that.”

  “I thought you’d offer to swing the hammer yourself.”

  “Oh, I’ll be right there.”

  “I didn’t think revenge was your style.”

  “You should know better than that.”

  And despite Sarah’s bantering tone, Lucy could hear the banked core of fury inside it. Sarah was helping her, but her friend had not yet forgiven her.

  Chapter 8

  In the night, another gale blew in. Lucy woke to the sounds of the shutters rattling wrathfully. The rain pounded like stampeding horses on the roof tiles. She groaned, pulling her pillow over her head. The weather should not be so violent so soon. There were still more than seven sennights until Chance. Which meant it was going to be a bad season. She pitied the sailors out on the Inland Sea, and sent a prayer to Meris to keep them safe.

  With Blythe’s peppery companionship, Lucy quickly ate her breakfast. She couldn’t help yawning, her jaw cracking. She’d fallen asleep only after hours of tossing and turning. And when she finally did drift off, the stranger from her childhood stalked her through a shadowy dream city crawling with sylveth spawn. She woke just as the stranger reached for her throat, spines erupting from his eyes.

  Though she wasn’t hungry, Lucy forced down her toast and bacon so that her stomach wouldn’t growl embarrassingly later. Afterward, Blythe pinned up her hair and helped Lucy dress in a corset, stockings, trousers, chemise, and undertunic. Lucy donned her saffron customs surcoat that made her look sallow and sick. Not that the tight brackets around her nose and mouth and the dark circles under her eyes helped any. She collected her seal and satchel, donning her cloak, gloves, and thick-soled boots.

  “Donna be forgettin’ the ball tonight. I’ll have yer bath ready when ye get home. Donna dawdle,” Blythe said, shaking her finger at Lucy. “Yer mother sent a message that Jack will collect ye at eight. Ye donna want to keep yer brother waitin’.”

  “I will come home promptly at sundown,” Lucy promised, feeling slightly less annoyed with the prospect of the ball. S
he’d not had occasion to see her younger brother for two sennights, and hadn’t anticipated seeing him for at least two months more. He was a journeyman shipbuilder with Wright and Rossum out on the south claw. As ships piled into the harbor looking for safety from the coming Chance storms, the dockyards would overflow with ships getting refitted and repaired. Jack would be working every waking moment. Sundown laws didn’t apply to shipbuilders. Lucy wondered how he’d managed to get away for the night. She had a dark suspicion that her mother had had something to do with it—her mother and the Summerland’s ball, and Lucy’s criminal lack of a husband.

  Downstairs, James had a footspider waiting. Lucy brushed the water from the seat and climbed beneath the canopy, pulling the oilskin apron over her lap. He set off at a stumbling trot, his head bent into the whipping rain.

  The customs docks were a complex system of warehouses and docks where ships could be inspected, their cargoes off-loaded and certified, their passengers interviewed, and their documents evaluated. The footspider dropped Lucy at the base of the pier leading out to the wet docks. Revenue cutters lined the pier like suckling puppies, bobbing on the waves. The wind pushed at Lucy, making it difficult to catch her breath. She hunched over and struggled forward. Spume geysered on either side, dousing her in a frigid, salty shower.

  She showed her badge to the charcoal-clad Hornets at the door. Inside, she went first to the expansive mud-room, where she sloughed her dripping cloak and exchanged her boots for one of the dry pairs lining the back of her small closet. She toweled her face and arms dry and dabbed futilely at her hair before dropping the towel in the hamper. She glanced in the mirror. Her kohl had not run. A small grace. Her plump cheeks were scarlet, clashing with her auburn hair. She stabbed her fingers at the loosened tendrils to tuck them back in. They sprang free, ignoring her muttered invectives. At last she gave up, hearing the toll of the sunrise bell. Alistair would be spawning kittens. As far as he was concerned, anyone who wasn’t in the customs chambers precisely as the bell started tolling was late.

  She collected her satchel and jogged up the circular staircase. Ahead of her ran three others, all wearing the same saffron surcoat. At the third landing, the group crossed a long gallery, dodging around the hodgepodge collection of couches, chairs, and tables that stuffed the waiting area. On the other side was a pair of plain double doors opening into a large rotunda.

  At the center of the room was a corralled area full of padded benches. Surrounding it was a series of angular stalls containing tables and stacking bins made of wire and wood. Ringing the walls were large, pie-shaped cubicles, each containing a half-dozen desks littered with papers and ledgers, and tall shelves overflowing with more books and papers jumbled with a varied assortment of objects. The walls rose high into a curved plaster ceiling that was painted blue with patterns in cream, white, gold, and pink. Recessed sylveth lights gave the impression of a sunny day, despite the bleak cacophony of the storm outside.

  On the opposite wall of the customs roundhouse was a balcony made of scrolled iron. Beneath, a corridor led into the warren of offices occupied by the customs commissioners. Lucy blew out a breath, seeing that Alistair had not yet taken his place at the railing.

  She followed the three other inspectors down a narrow walkway to join the milling crowd filling the bull pen. Lucy nodded and gave quick greetings to those around her, but was cut off by Alistair’s arrival. He was trailed by two master clerks wearing saffron oversleeves pulled up over their arms to protect their coats. They each carried ledgers that they set on pedestals on either end of the balcony. The sunrise bell ceased its tolling and Alistair lifted his hands to silence the chattering of the gathered inspectors.

  “Good morning,” he called.

  Instantly there was a swell of laughter. Someone made a sound like the howl of the wind, and someone else said loudly, “A good morning if you breathe water!”

  Alistair chopped his hand in the air, his mouth pulling inward in a sour pucker. Lucy grinned. He was a man of order and precision. He didn’t like anyone upsetting his schedule, even by a few grains of the glass.

  “The lighter strike will begin at sundown. We need to make as much use of them as we can today to off-load cargoes. Starting Moonday, we will begin processing ships according to a priority of perishables and foodstuffs, then Crosspointe ships, then all others. Shipowners may choose to hire gangs to replace the lighters, but of course that will require crossing the strike lines, and they will be responsible for any charges stemming from such chaos.”

  At the word chaos, Alistair gave a fastidious shudder. Not for the first time did Lucy wonder about his home. Did he keep his children locked in a bare basement where they could not put grubby finger smudges on his banisters, cups, and mirrors? And how had he ever managed to get his wife with child? There was a certain messiness to the matter that made Lucy wonder how Alistair could possibly keep a stiff rod in the face of such disorder.

  She chortled, covering the sound with a cough. Next to her, Stuart Kimple patted her back forcefully. Lucy straightened, waving him off. He bent close.

  “Trying to picture the old man havin’ a bite of giblet pie?”

  Lucy snorted and began to cough again. Stuart thumped her again until she caught her breath.

  “Thought so. Hard to imagine it being possible. Still, he’s got five sniveling brats bouncing around the house, and anytime I’ve seen the missus, she’s grinning ear to ear. Old man must let loose his anchor sometime.”

  Lucy shushed him and turned back to Alistair, who was glaring down at her from his perch. She schooled her features, nodding at him to continue.

  “Without the lighters to transfer cargoes to the warehouses, we will have to do most of our inspections aboard ship. This of course will take much longer and be more costly. You will need to be very careful to document your time thoroughly. And do not allow yourself to be rushed. Shipowners will be understandably anxious, as will everyone else downstream. However, it can’t be helped. You have a duty to Crosspointe and the crown, and you must fulfill it to the best of your ability. You will be assigned two extra Hornets as well as extra stevedores, box knockers, and clerks. Teams will be stationed here and along the dirtside docks only.

  “Collect your documentation and vouchers from my clerks. You may select your extra team members in the south gallery. Be quick, now. Daylight is burning. Miss Trenton, please join me in my office.”

  Lucy frowned. She didn’t want to get the bilge of the extra team members. She sighed. Hopefully Hig would be down there taking charge.

  “Hear you took the helm on the salvage,” Stuart said as the assembled inspectors milled.

  “That’s right,” Lucy said tersely. The horrors of that night were still too fresh for casual chatter. She didn’t know if she’d ever want to talk about it. At least not in the bright light of day without a drink in her hand. And not to someone like Stuart.

  “Took one on the bows myself, few years back,” Stuart said softly, surprising her. “Knucklebone weir. Not as big as this last one. Storm wasn’t as rough either. Thank the gods. Two ships lost. The Koro out of Orsage and the Swift, one of ours. Sylveth tide came right behind.” Stuart paused over the memory, his expression suddenly sober. “It was an ugly day,” he said at last.

  The look Lucy exchanged with him was full of bleak understanding and sympathy. She wondered if the nightmares still pursued him in the night. She thought they probably did.

  “They’re going to be asking questions. Routine debriefing. Stirs things up, though. Don’t let it rattle you. Later, if you want to talk—I’ll stand you to a bottle.”

  Lucy nodded, grateful. Stuart winked and waved, following the other inspectors out of the roundhouse. She had forgotten about the debriefing. The customs official in charge of the initial salvage was required to make a report, verbally and in writing. Lucy made a face. She should have been working on that. No doubt Alistair thought she had it ready. His sense of order was about to suffer a blow. Besides
, she’d had other things to worry about. Not that she was going to tell him about any of that.

  She wound through the narrow passages until she arrived at the lobby of Alistair’s offices. One of his clerks and four scribes were scratching away with their pens. The clerk nodded to Lucy.

  “Follow me,” she said, guiding Lucy through several more rooms to Alistair’s private office. The clerk knocked with ink-stained fingers. The door was swung open, and Lucy stepped inside. Her guide did not enter with her, but pulled the door shut and disappeared.

  Lucy was surprised to see that Alistair was not alone. Aside from his senior clerk, who’d opened the door, there were three other people present. They looked at Lucy as if she’d interrupted a heated conversation.

  “Ah, Miss Trenton. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Alistair was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his pale fingers tapping a staccato pattern on the chestnut wood. His iron gray hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it. His mouth was puckered in tight disapproval and his deep-set eyes glittered with anger. Whether it was aimed at her or not, Lucy didn’t know. She hesitated, glancing around at the other visitors.

  On her left, standing with her back to the bookshelves, was a round-faced woman. She was shorter than Lucy, with close-cropped, muddy brown hair. Her cheeks were red and her chest rapidly rose and fell, as if she were out of breath. Sitting on the chaise was another woman. She was older than the first, her dyed hair an impossible shade of yellow. She wore it piled up on her head, her high-collared dress lending a severity to her doughy features. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her blue eyes bugging slightly from her head.

  The last of Alistair’s guests was a ridiculous little man standing by the window. His legs were spraddled wide, his brown eyes stormy. His frothy cravat squeezed his neck like a noose. He wore a brocade frock coat over an embroidered vest. His pocket-watch chain strained across his bulging belly. Blousy pantaloons enveloped his thighs, and his thick calves were sausaged in white stockings. He perched precariously on fashionable high-heeled silver-buckled shoes. He looked like a gaudy rooster on stilts.